The sound of rain echoed against the tin roof of the gang's hideout, an unrelenting symphony that seemed to mirror the unrest in Draven's mind. He sat on a rickety wooden chair, staring at the blood-stained dagger in his hands. It was sharp, precise, yet it felt heavier than it should. It wasn't the weight of the blade but the burden of its purpose.
Michael leaned against the wall across the room, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes were half-closed, but Draven could tell he wasn't asleep. Michael was always watching, even when he seemed relaxed.
"What's your problem now?" Michael finally spoke, breaking the silence.
Draven looked up, startled, as if the question had pulled him out of a deep trance. "Do you ever rest?"
Michael chuckled softly, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Rest is for people with peace of mind. I haven't had that luxury in years."
Draven frowned. "Neither have I."
Michael raised an eyebrow but said nothing, as if he knew Draven wasn't done speaking.
"I keep thinking this life will offer me something," Draven continued. "A purpose, maybe even redemption. But all it gives me is more reasons to regret waking up every day."
Michael snorted. "You're looking for meaning in a meaningless world. That's your first mistake."
Draven clenched the dagger tightly. "Is that why you killed him? The guy from the warehouse. You told him he'd live, then slit his throat anyway. Was that just... meaningless?"
Michael's eyes darkened. He pushed off the wall and took a slow step toward Draven. "Do you really want to know?"
Draven nodded, his gaze unwavering.
Michael crouched in front of him, close enough that Draven could smell the faint trace of iron on his clothes. "The world isn't black and white, kid. It's not even gray. It's chaos, and in chaos, the only rule is survival. That man would've come back for you—and me. I wasn't about to risk it."
Draven looked away. "But the way you did it... it was cruel."
Michael laughed—a low, bitter sound. "Cruelty is a language everyone understands. You don't want to speak it, fine. But don't expect to survive without knowing how to listen."
The conversation left Draven cold. He didn't know if Michael was right, but he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the man than he let on.
---
The gang had been tasked with another job, one that required precision and absolute silence. George had sent them to intercept a shipment of weapons being smuggled into the city. Draven and Michael were paired together again, a fact that unsettled him more than it reassured him.
As they moved through the shadows near the docks, Draven couldn't help but notice how effortlessly Michael navigated the darkness. His steps were soundless, his movements fluid, almost predatory. Draven struggled to keep up, his own steps clumsy in comparison.
"Try not to make us a target," Michael whispered without looking back.
Draven bit back a retort and focused on staying quiet.
The shipment was guarded by six men, all armed and alert. Michael signaled for Draven to stay back as he moved closer, his knife glinting faintly in the moonlight.
What happened next made Draven's blood run cold.
Michael moved like a shadow, silent and swift. Within moments, two of the guards were down, their throats slit before they could even react. The third man turned, but Michael was already behind him, snapping his neck with a precision that spoke of years of practice.
Draven watched in stunned silence. It wasn't just skill; it was something more. Something unnatural.
When Michael finally motioned for him to join, Draven hesitated. His hands were trembling, and his chest felt tight.
"Now, Draven," Michael hissed.
He forced himself to move, stepping over the bodies as he followed Michael into the dimly lit warehouse. The remaining guards were taken out just as swiftly, but this time, Draven noticed something strange.
Michael's movements weren't just efficient—they were otherworldly. At one point, it seemed as though his shadow stretched unnaturally, creeping along the walls as if it had a life of its own.
Draven shook his head, convincing himself it was a trick of the light. But the unease in his stomach refused to settle.
---
The job was a success, and George was ecstatic. The gang had secured not only the shipment but also valuable intel about a rival group. Their reputation was climbing, and with it, their influence in the city.
But Draven couldn't share in the celebration.
As he sat alone in his room, he replayed the night's events over and over in his mind. He couldn't shake the image of Michael's shadow or the way he moved—like a predator in a world full of prey.
"Restless again?"
Draven jumped, his heart pounding as Michael appeared in the doorway.
"Stop doing that!" Draven snapped.
Michael smirked. "Doing what?"
"Creeping up on me like that."
Michael shrugged and leaned against the doorframe. "You should get used to it. This life doesn't give you much warning before it stabs you in the back."
Draven glared at him. "How do you do it?"
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Do what?"
"Move like you're not even human," Draven said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Michael's smirk faltered, replaced by a look Draven couldn't quite place. "Careful, kid. Questions like that can get you answers you're not ready for."
Draven stared at him, his mind racing. "What are you?"
Michael's expression hardened. For a moment, the room felt colder, the shadows darker. Then, as quickly as it came, the moment passed.
"I'm your partner," Michael said, his voice light but his eyes deadly serious. "That's all you need to know."
Draven wanted to press him further, but something in Michael's gaze warned him not to. Instead, he nodded, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of doubt and suspicion.
The rain continued to fall as Draven lay awake that night, his mind refusing to quiet. He had thought there might be peace in this life, a sense of belonging. But all he had found was more questions and an ever-growing sense of dread.
And Michael? Michael was a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.